


catch a little sunbeaaaaaaaam

by gogollescent



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1372546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogollescent/pseuds/gogollescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt, "Bertholdt and Reiner actually have a good day."</p>
            </blockquote>





	catch a little sunbeaaaaaaaam

**Author's Note:**

> Vague AU where the Survey Corps captured Reiner and Bertholdt in chapter 50. How successfully I filled the exact requirements of prompt, I... leave to your judgment.

The cocoa comes from Armin, who seems to be your designated handler; they think that what he goaded once he’s now fit to subdue. Titan logic, not human: anything done can be undone—any _exo_ thermic reaction, profited by. “It’s not poisoned,” says Armin, brandishing the mug. “Can you be poisoned? I suppose that’s an upside of photosynthesis, there’s no tampering with the sun?”

How can he think that, you ask yourself. When he’s been inside, outside, inside again, these walls.

But the chocolate smells sweet, and it’s not as though you were chosen for this mission because you were proud. Thirty-six days below the surface. The black tracks of cold wet over packed earth. They’ve got you in a root cellar, somewhere under a decrepit old stone barn; they’re storing you with the potatoes and preserves, the bloody jellies in glass jars staring like the eyes of betrayed compatriots. You’re thinking of the human ones, you suppose; you must be. Titan eyes grow back. But kept down here, in any case, against a new king rising up like the midwinter sun. They’re fugitives themselves, these days and nights.

Chains clink when you take the cup. “Thank you,” you say politely, and almost manage to pound in a stutter, the way you used to do it, like a smith putting folds in his steel to purge impurities. Armin's head jerks up in shock at a voice he recognizes; and you offer your faintest smile in return. He sits back slowly, relief clear on his face, as though you’d reached out with your thumb and burnt the sigil in. Humans use fingerprints, you remember, for identification; you couldn’t leave those, of course. Not with your skinless smoking brand-hot hand.

 _You’re too easily discouraged_ , Reiner always said.

It’s not that you want to hurt Armin. Especially. The cocoa tastes like you remember from your first festival in human territory—thick, rich, luxurious, but nothing, you thought then, to die for. Same as all their pleasures. You sampled some, out of considering interest; denied yourself the rest—not in a milky atom of atonement—but because it seemed unkinder, or unnecessarily unsentimental, to kill a species and form neutral opinions of its drinks. You never dreamed that one day you would find yourself clinging, as though desperately, to a ladder of steam. You remember this relief. You don't need it, but that is true of even your life. Twisting transparent rungs, wet heat, your lashes sharp against your cheek as you clench both eyes and swallow. The way your cells drink what they touch, and still lose heat to air.

Lucky Ymir, even now seated at the hand of the heir unapparent. Lucky—you can think it— _lucky_ Annie, waiting... like a sword in its stone. And as for Reiner—

You choke a little on liquid that went down the wrong pipe. Your too-used lungs like freedom's fucking wings in your thin chest. You don’t know why you took it. It's a fact that, before all this, you got into the habit of accepting contemptible things. You understood worthlessness, you felt kinship, you could sympathize and stand apart—and you could, you _did,_ but still they got to you. Crawling under the skin. (At your nape, if you but knew it, silk-fine dark hairs rise up.)

Armin watches.

"All right," he says, "I think you’re ready."

He vanishes up the ladder like a monkey. When the trapdoor opens again, it’s not his monkey face on the other side.

"Bertholdt," Reiner says, in a voice you would like to say you won’t forgive him for; "shit, _Bertholdt_ ,” like repeating himself will make it _not_ you. Then, apparently satisfied, he descends.

"I’ll leave you to it," Armin calls down. The trapdoor shuts.

You don’t understand immediately. He has on his old uniform, but you’re used to seeing him in it.

When it clicks, you try to throw your mug at him. This works less well with shackles.

Reiner’s smile goes lopsided. He hunches down to recover the cup—not even broken. Stays on his knees. The dark stain from the spill is dampening his breeches. “I thought you might say that.” Have you said something? You don’t think you’ve fucking said something, Reiner Braun.

"O-kay," Reiner amends, "throw. _Throw_ that.” With uncharacteristic common sense, he doesn’t touch you. Of course he would have remembered your experimental excesses as well as you, and better. Maybe the little people have been teaching him restraint. Not the way he used to be, hurling himself forward, cracking through every barrier. To hell with what his progress let in after. He made a hole in _you_ , from the very start, and the 104th—

He is still smiling. Like scum raked off a pond by ripples, agitation clears your mind.

"Reiner," you say, "what did you tell them? You really think they believe you?"

Hesitancy, welcome. He looks at the mug in his hands, then back at you, watching, probably with a finger of cocoa riding your lip. “You don’t look so good, you know,” is his trenchant comment; and then, all lessons in limits unlearned, he kisses you like his mouth is the sun. You can use it—the heat still living, just below the surface of his skin. His freckled cheekbones holding warmth like wood, like hair, like water. His hand on your shoulder. His hand on your throat. You think, he has got to answer you—but here, unheard, alone like this, you can still survive and feast.


End file.
